Punishment (6 page)

‘You need a profiler,' she said slowly.

‘Exactly. I need you.'

‘No,' she said a bit too loudly. ‘It's not me that you need.'

*

In a terraced house in Bærum, a woman looked at her watch. Time was out of synch. Seconds no longer followed seconds. One minute did not lead on to another. The hours were stacking up. They were eternal and then suddenly very short. They came back when they were finally over; she recognised them, like old enemies that would not leave her in peace.

The fear that first morning was at least something real, for both of them. Something they could channel into a round of telephone calls, to the police, to their parents. To work. To the fire brigade, who came on a wild goose chase and were of no help at all in finding the little five-year-old boy with brown curly hair who had disappeared during the night. Lasse rang everyone he could think of: the hospital, which sent an ambulance but found no one they could take away. She rang all the neighbours, who were sceptical and stopped at the gate when they saw uniformed police in the front garden.

The fear could be used. Since then, things had just got worse.

She stumbled on the cellar stairs.

The stabilisers had fallen down from the wall. Lasse had just taken them off Kim's bike. He had been so proud. Cycled off with his blue helmet. Fallen, got up again. Cycled on. Without stabilisers. They hung them by the cellar steps, just inside the door, like a trophy.

‘So that I can see how clever I am,' Kim said to his father, jiggling his loose front tooth. ‘It's going to fall out soon. How much will I get from the tooth fairy?'

They needed jam.

The twins needed jam. And the jam was in the cellar. She made it last year. Kim had helped to pick the berries. Kim. Kim. Kim.

The twins were only two years old and needed jam.

There was something lying in front of the storeroom. She couldn't think what it might be. An oblong package, a roll of something?

It wasn't big. Just over a metre, maybe. Something wrapped up in grey plastic, with a piece of paper on the top. It was taped on. Red felt-tip on a big white sheet of paper. Brown tape. Grey plastic. A head was sticking out of the bundle, the top of a head, a child's head with brown curly hair.

‘A note,' she said lamely. ‘There's a note there.'

Kim was smiling. He was dead and he was smiling. There was a slight red hole in his upper gum where he had lost a tooth. She sat down on the floor. Time ran in circles and she knew that this was the start of something that would never end. When Lasse came down to look for her, she had no idea where she was. She did not let go of her boy until someone gave her an injection and she was taken off to hospital. A policeman opened the boy's closed right hand.

Inside was a tooth, a white tooth with a small bloody root.

*

Even though the office was relatively big, the air was already stuffy. Her thesis was still lying on the edge of the desk. Adam Stubo ran his index finger over the pale winter landscape before pointing at her.

‘You are a psychologist and a lawyer,' he insisted.

‘That's not true. Not entirely. I've got a college degree in psychology. From the US. Not a university degree. Lawyer, on the other hand – that's correct.'

She was sweating and asked for a glass of water. It struck
her that she had been forced to come here, more or less commandeered, against her will, by a policeman who she wanted nothing to do with. He was talking about a case that had nothing to do with her. It was well beyond the scope of her expertise.

‘I would like to go now,' she said politely. ‘I'm afraid I won't be able to help you. You obviously know people in the FBI. Ask them. They use profilers. As far as I know.'

She nodded at the shield on the wall; it was blue, tasteless and eye-catching.

‘I'm an academic, Stubo. And I'm the mother of a young child. This case repulses me. It frightens me. Unlike you, I'm allowed to think like that. I want to go.'

He poured some water from a bottle without a top and put a paper cup down in front of her.

‘You were thirsty,' he reminded her. ‘Drink. Do you really mean that?'

‘Mean what?'

She spilt some water and noticed that she was shaking. The cold water trickled from the corner of her mouth down over her chin and into the hollow of her neck. She tugged at the neck of her sweater.

‘That it doesn't concern you.'

The telephone rang. The sound was shrill and insistent. Adam Stubo grabbed the receiver. His Adam's apple made three obvious jumps, as if the man was about to throw up. He said nothing. A minute passed. A quiet yes, not much more than an incomprehensible grunt, came from his lips. Another minute passed. Then he put the phone down. He slowly angled for the cigar holder in his breast pocket. His fingers tickled the brushed metal. Still he said nothing. Suddenly he pushed the cigar back into place and tightened his tie.
Wrapped up in a plastic bag. The murderer had left a note. Now you've got what you deserved.'

Johanne pulled off her glasses. She didn't want to see. She didn't want to hear either. Instead she stood up blindly and put out her hand in the direction of the door.

‘That's what the note said,' said Adam Stubo. ‘“You've got what you deserved.” Do you still think this is none of your business?'

‘Let me go. Let me out of here.'

She shuffled towards the door and fumbled for the handle, with her glasses still in her left hand.

‘Of course,' she heard in the distance. ‘I'll get Oscar to drive you home. Thank you for coming.'

E
milie couldn't understand why Kim had been allowed to go. It was unfair. She had come first, so she should be the first one to go. And Kim had got a Coke whereas she had to drink tepid milk and water that tasted of metal. Everything tasted of metal. The food. Her mouth. She chewed and sucked her own tongue. It tasted like money, coins that had been in someone's pocket for a long time. A long, long time. Long before she had come here. Too long. Daddy wasn't looking for her any more. Daddy must have given up. And Mummy wasn't in Heaven, she was ashes and dust in an urn and didn't exist any more. It was so bright. Emilie rubbed her eyes and tried to shut out the sharp glare from the strip light. She could sleep. She slept nearly all the time. It was best that way. Then she could dream. And in any case, she had nearly stopped eating. Her stomach had shrunk and there wasn't even room for tomato soup any more. The man got angry when he collected the still full bowls. Not really angry, just irritated.

Kim had been allowed to go home.

That was unfair and Emilie couldn't understand why.

A
dam Stubo had to pull himself together not to touch the naked body. His hand was reaching out towards the boy's calf. He wanted to stroke the smooth skin. He wanted to make sure that there was no life left in the boy. The way the boy was lying – on his back with closed eyes, his head to one side, his arms alongside his body, one hand slightly closed and the other open with the palm facing up, as if he was waiting for something, a gift, some sweets – the child could so easily have been alive. The section from the autopsy, which went across his breastbone and down to just above his small penis in the shape of a T, had been carefully closed. The paleness of his face was due to the time of year; winter was just over and summer had not yet begun. The boy's mouth was half open. Stubo realised that he wanted to kiss the child. He wanted to breathe life into the boy. He wanted to ask for forgiveness.

‘Shit,' he said, choking, into his hand. ‘Shit, shit.'

The pathologist looked at him over the rims of his glasses.

‘You never get used to it, do you?'

Adam Stubo didn't answer. His knuckles were white and he sniffed gently.

‘I'm done,' said the pathologist, pulling off his latex gloves. ‘A lovely little child. Five years old. You may well say shit. But it won't help much.'

Stubo wanted to look away, but couldn't. He carefully lowered his right hand to the boy's face. It was as if the child was smiling. Stubo let his index finger touch the face, lightly,
running it from the corner of the eye to the chin. The skin was already waxy to touch; it felt like an ice-cold shock to his fingertip.

‘What happened?'

‘You lot didn't find him in time,' said the pathologist drily. ‘Strictly speaking, that's what happened.'

He covered the body with a white sheet. It seemed even smaller when covered. The body was so small, it seemed to shrink under the stiff paper. The steel worktop was too big. It was designed for an adult, someone who was responsible for him or herself, who died of a heart attack, perhaps – fatty food and too many cigarettes, modern life and unhealthy pleasures. It wasn't meant for children.

‘Can we just drop the gags?' said Stubo quietly. ‘We're both affected by this. By . . .'

He kept quiet while the pathologist washed his hands thoroughly. It was a ceremony for him, as if he was trying to rid himself of death with soap and water.

‘You're right,' mumbled the doctor. ‘Sorry. Let's get out of here.'

His office was beside the autopsy room.

‘Tell me,' said Adam Stubo, dropping down into a tired two-seater sofa. ‘I want all the details.'

The pathologist, a thin man of around sixty-five, remained standing by his chair with an absent-minded, slightly surprised look on his face. For a moment, it was as if he couldn't remember what he was doing. Then he ran his hand over his scalp and sat down.

‘There aren't any.'

The office had no windows. But the air was fresh, nearly cold, and surprisingly free of smells. The quiet buzz of the ventilation system was drowned out by a distant ambulance siren. Stubo felt closed in. There was nothing to give him his bearings. No daylight, no shadows or shifting clouds to tell him where he was.

‘The subject was a five-year-old identified boy,' the pathologist reeled off, as if reading from an invisible report. ‘Healthy. Normal height, normal weight. No illnesses were reported by his family, no illnesses were identified during the autopsy. Inner organs healthy and intact. There is no damage to the skeleton or connective tissue. Nor are there any marks or signs of violence or inflicted injuries. The skin is unbroken, with the exception of a graze on the right knee that is obviously from an earlier date. At least a week old and therefore inflicted before he disappeared.'

Stubo rubbed his face. The room was spinning. He needed something to drink.

‘Teeth are intact and healthy. A full set of milk teeth, with the exception of the front tooth in the upper gum, which must have fallen out a matter of hours before death . . .'

He hesitated and then rephrased it:

‘Before little Kim died,' he finished quietly. ‘In other words . . . mors subita.'

‘No known reason for death,' said Adam Stubo.

‘Exactly. Though he did . . .'

The pathologist was red-eyed. His thin face reminded Stubo of an old goat, especially as the man had a goatee that made his face even longer.

‘He did have some diazepam in his urine. Not much, but . . .'

‘As in . . . Valium? Was he poisoned?'

Stubo straightened his back and laid his arm along the back of the sofa. He needed to hold on to something.

‘No, not at all.'

The pathologist scratched his little beard with his index finger.

‘He was not poisoned. I am of the opinion, however, that a healthy boy of five years should absolutely not be taking medicine that contains diazepam, but all the same, there's no
question of poisoning. Of course, it's impossible to say what kind of dose he was originally given, but at the time of death, there were only traces left. In no way . . .'

He stroked his chin and squinted at Stubo.

‘. . . enough to harm him. The body had got rid of most of it already, unless he was only given a ridiculously small amount. And I can't imagine what that would be good for.'

‘Valium,' said Adam Stubo slowly, as if the word itself held the secret, the explanation as to why a boy of five could just die, for no apparent reason.

‘Valium,' the pathologist repeated, equally slowly. ‘Or something else with the same substance.'

‘But what is it used for?'

‘Used for? You mean: what is diazepam used for?'

For the first time, the pathologist got a slightly irritated look just above his eyes and he glanced over at the clock, openly.

‘Surely you know that. Nerves. It's widely used in hospitals for pre-op purposes. Makes the patient drowsy. Calms them down. Relaxes them. It's also given to patients with epilepsy. To prevent severe convulsions. Both children and adults. Kim didn't suffer from anything like that.'

‘So why would anyone give a five-year-old . . .'

‘I'll have to stop there for today, Stubo. I've actually been working for eleven hours. You'll get a preliminary report in the morning. The final report won't be ready for a few weeks. Have to wait for all the results before I can finish it. But, broadly speaking . . .'

He smiled. Had it not been for the expression in his small, close eyes, Stubo might have suspected him of enjoying all this.

‘You've got a major problem. The boy simply died, just like that. For no apparent reason. And that's it for today.'

He looked at the clock again, before taking off his white lab coat and putting on a parka that had seen better days. When
they were both through the door, he locked it with two keys and then put a friendly hand on Stubo's shoulder.

‘Good luck,' he said drily. ‘You need it.'

As they passed the autopsy room on the way out, Adam Stubo turned away. Fortunately it was pouring with rain outside. He wanted to walk home, even though it would take him well over an hour. It was 16 May. And past six o'clock. In the distance he could hear a school band practising the national anthem, out of time and out of tune.